


Summer Morning

by Nehszriah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic, hanging out in pants and jim jams, or kind of a prompt fic, references to E-rated things, the morning after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5132609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short scene with Twelve and Clara, one Thursday morning in the summer after a long and active night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [teeth-brushing](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/153551) by randomthunk on tumblr. 



> I was summoned, along with a couple others, to write fic involving Twelve's question-mark underpants. Here's my go at it.

It was a quiet, peaceful summer morning as Clara woke up alone in bed, sore from the night before. Everything hurt, places she didn’t want to think of chafed, and her head was throbbing. That was going to be the _last_ time she precluded a night-in with nebula storm-chasing. As much as she enjoyed the wonders the Doctor showed her, she was going to have to get him to rein it in a little bit; if she had a night of pizza and telly and tumbling into bed planned, the proper thing was going to have to stick to the plan, not go and get something space-timey in anyhow.

“Ach, _why_?!” Clara heard as she shuffled out of her room. She didn’t bother with a robe—it was hot enough as it was, so her camisole and panties were good enough—and made her way over to the bathroom. Standing over the sink was the Doctor, in just as a state of undress as she was, with a scowl on his face as he furiously brushed at his teeth.

“What’s the problem now?” she muttered. She reached for her toothbrush in its cup and found the Doctor’s. Yup; he was brushing his teeth with the blue one. Not even awake enough to care, she took the red one and began to work on her own teeth.

“The taste won’t come out,” he complained. “We should have just left it at the first go last night. Now I’m all chewed up, everything’s sore, and I can’t get this taste out of my mouth! This is the third time I’ve brushed!”

“You didn’t seem to have much of a problem with any tastes last night,” she fired back. “You actually seemed pretty eager despite the mixing of flavors.”

He frowned at that, lifting up his shirt and scratching his stomach. “You make it sound like we went out for ice cream.”

“Then stop complaining after a wild night or there won’t _be_ any more wild nights.” Clara glanced over at him, skeptical. “You’re all chewed up?” There wasn’t a scratch on him from what she could see. The Doctor lifted his shirt up further and showed her the bite marks scattered over his chest.

“That’s not including my shoulders.”

“Ah, okay,” she said. Spit in the sink, rinse, put the toothbrush back, and she was ready to eat something, get dressed, and prepare for the day ahead. “You about done?”

“Possibly,” he growled. He too spat in the sink and rinsed out his mouth, only to keep the sour look on his face. “Still there.”

“Well, keep at it,” she smirked. “Oh, and can I make a request?”

“What…?”

“Wear something a bit more romantic next Wednesday,” she said. She got in a good and playful smack to his rear-end before walking out of the bathroom. “Tight red pants covered in question marks? Who the hell wears shit like that?”

“Who wears a galaxy on their arse?” he replied. Oh, of course, her panties were covered in stars.

“It came in a three-pack; the others were flowers and stripes. I have to think economical on a teacher’s budget, so no exciting undergarments for me.” She patted the side of the TARDIS (still respectfully parked in her sitting room) and wrinkled her nose as the smell of spoiling pizza and now-stale beer hit her. Making a mental note to clean that up later, Clara went to the kitchen and found a pack of muffins that were only half-eaten and began to tear into one. She saw the Doctor moments later, still looking cranky and thoroughly disgusted.

“No ginger beer next Wednesday,” he said, swiping a muffin of his own. Ha—a man with a slight muffin-top eating a muffin.

“We’ll have what I get and that’s final,” she replied firmly, pouring them both a cup of coffee. Bless the inventor of the automatic timer, for whoever they were gave her a true gift. “You just need to watch how much you eat; pack away over a whole pizza by yourself and your tummy is going to become more than a slight thing.” She petted his stomach and leaned on the counter next to him. He didn’t like her talking about his new body, but the fact she was still so affectionate with him had made his protests morph into the grimaces he gave now. Picking up her mug and taking a sip of coffee, she slid into his side, pressed against his body that was a comforting sort of warm, despite having been out of bed longer than she had. “Want to pretend it’s Wednesday?”

“Can you handle it? I know my superior Time Lord physiology can, but you—”

“You’d be surprised,” she chuckled. After popping the rest of her muffin in her mouth, Clara drank a bit more coffee and grabbed lovingly at the questioning crotch next to her. “Ready when you are.”

“Don’t worry,” the Doctor grinned. He quickly finished his muffin and washed it down with the rest of his coffee. “I’m there.”


End file.
